


Your Eyes (Or, Five Times Derek said nothing, and the One time he did)

by arialist



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - RENT Fusion, Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Confident Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derogatory Language, Explicit Language, Implied Jealous Peter Hale, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Past Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Past Derek Hale/Paige, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Recovering Addict Derek Hale, Shy Derek, Top Derek Hale, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Trans Erica Reyes, Zhe goes by "Eric/a"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arialist/pseuds/arialist
Summary: “I hear Spike Lee’s shooting down the street.” Derek’s voice is flat.He wants to look away. He can’t.Brown eyes snorts, a flash of white teeth appearing. Derek’s not sure when he shifted closer, only knows his heart rates accelerated and his breathing’s gone a little hard. A witch, Derek thinks miserably, helpless when slim fingers slide into his own hand, turn his palm over. A damn witch, because it shouldn’t send a rush of heat up Derek’s spine as the other man lifts their hands onto his own lap, the moon behind them lighting their skin. Moles dot along the pale wrist, his forearm, and Derek wonders dimly how far along his skin they mark as the stranger murmurs something that sounds likebah, humbugwith a smile.------------Or, a 5 + 1 Sterek RENT AU.





	1. I should tell you hello

**Author's Note:**

> A RENT/Teen Wolf crossover originally written for an exchange, but life and health got in the way. Still, this one was for you, @holmeslesswhovian! 
> 
> Featuring: Derek as Roger, Stiles as Mimi, Scott as Mark, Erica (known as Eric/a in this fic, and using _Ze/Zem_ pronouns) as Angel, Boyd as Collins, Allison as Maureen and Lydia as Joanne. And, of course, Peter as Benny. 
> 
> *This is heavily inspired by the film version of Larson's incredible show and will reference songs/moments from it, but we'll be seeing a lot of in-between moments that aren't depicted in the show or film. 
> 
> Tags will be added with each chapter; If I miss anything, please let me know!

_“1st Avenue, next stop.”_   
  
The car is grungy in the truest sense of the word, shitty fluorescent lighting making Scott look vaguely green next to him. Derek’s eyes are closed, trying to ignore the faint scent of piss and booze and cigarette smoke that permeates almost all of the subway seats, focusing instead on their stop being announced momentarily, and the vague notes he keeps hearing in his head. It’s been almost a year since he’s written anything worthwhile, long nights in the loft just strumming at guitar strings proving fruitless. Like most things he does, Derek supposes. Scott’s snoring lightly next to him, dark hair tucked into a threadbare beanie; he recognizes it from their last goodwill haul, shopping trip paid by courtesy of what’s left of Derek’s inheritance, and the meager paycheck Scott gets from his part time at the vet’s. The train slows under their feet, a muted bell sound that makes Derek sit up and stretch, before elbowing Scott gently.   
  
“We’re here. Get up.”   
  
“Fucker.” is Scott’s sleepy reply, a lazy smile on his face as he yawns and stretches. Derek ignores him, his guitar case slung over his shoulder as he stands and hangs on to the nearest bar, smirking privately as the train comes to a stop and Scott topples over with another soft string of curses and a kick to Derek’s calf in retaliation for his snort. The station isn’t quite so packed at their stop- most people spend their time actively avoiding coming to Alphabet city, and those who come back only slink back in when the sun is gone and the street lamps are flickering on, which is funny, Derek thinks, because that’s when their shitty area becomes even shittier. Scott follows him off the train with a shiver, pulling the off-color mustard of his coat around him tighter, the scarf Allison had knit him three years before pulled snug around his neck as they walk up the subway steps and emerge into the bitter-bright sunlight. It’s ridiculous, the sun being this bright and the world being this cold all at the same time. Derek vaguely hates it- but that’s no surprise. He hates most things these days.   
  
“Man, I’m fuckin’ hungry.”   
  
Derek rolls his eyes, shrugs. “I think there’s bread at home. Maybe some peanut butter.” Derek mutters, making sure Scott is by his side as they side-step vendors and some of the bums on the street. Scott sighs and nods, clearly resigning himself to another unsatisfying sandwich, but it’s not like either of them have much to spare. The thought, combined with a glance at the way Scott’s once-round cheeks have turned thin and gaunt makes Derek wince, wondering if he can spread thin his allowance to get them something halfway decent for dinner. Scott’s like his little brother, and the dynamic is similar to it as well; Derek making sure the younger man stays fed and out of trouble, while Scott makes sure Derek leaves the loft at least twice a week. It’s strange, but it works, and Derek doesn’t bother questioning it.   
  
The wind is cold and bitter despite the sun beating down, making Scott’s nose run as they cross the street and a tell-tale tickle start at the back of Derek’s throat that he curses inwardly, trying to remember if there’s any tea or lemon or honey or combination thereof left in their threadbare cupboard over the sink. Medicine’s expensive; a luxury they don’t really get to enjoy, but it helps having Eric/a as a friend, with zer home-grown herbs and penchant for teas. Wondering how he might bribe zer into making him tea without being dragged into participating at the Life Support Meeting zhe and Boyd kept harassing him to show at, Derek barely notices they’re walking by the park at this point, a few blocks from the loft and Scott talking happily about some photoshoot he’s doing the next weekend.   
  
It’s bullshit, Derek thinks, that Scott’s wasting his time photographing back to school pictures and babies in sailor suits. Despite Scott’s insistence that he enjoys it, that the kids are cute and it’s some kind of practice, Derek can smell the bullshit, especially when they spot the little gallery Scott insists on visiting every time they head Midtown. Hours can pass and Scott spends the entire time sighing in longing as he takes in the photographs, even though Derek’s sure they’ve seen each at least fifty times before. The kid has talent, real talent, something Derek could recognize even back when he’d first met him, when Scott was dating Allison and Derek was, unfortunately, another notch on Kate’s long list of conquests. If anything positive came from _that_ , Derek muses, it was Scott.   
  
“Two for one Hot dogs- shit, Derek, you got a dollar?”   
  
Derek blinks, looks down at Scott who’s patting at the pockets on his coat like he’s on fire. Before he can reply Scott whoops in celebration, pulling crumpled bills free from somewhere in the coat, and Derek narrows his eyes at the unimpressed look the server at the Hot Dog cart gives the money, and then them both. Scott ignores the guy and orders, and Derek feels mild surprise color his features as Scott orders the second one with mustard and ketchup and relish, just the way Derek likes it. He resists the urge to ruffle his hair affectionately, takes the hot dog and eats with gusto instead. He’s definitely buying dinner later.   
  
Eating in companionable silence, Derek’s unsurprised when Scott inhales his in what looks like two bites, shaking his head slightly as he focuses on savoring his own. They’ve managed to find a bench that doesn’t smell too strongly of old, cheap wine and even older piss, and which the few birds that remained in the city had miraculously spared from a shit-bath, and Derek feels more than sees Scott lean back next to him, bench creaking in protest, head turning as he takes in the sight of the city. Derek guesses it has something to do with a photographer’s eye- he’s never looked around and found anything worth looking at, especially now; their little burough of the city is cold and bare and dirty and grey, with few instances of beauty to be found. Not that Derek’s even tried to look for anything near beauty in the last few years, not since... The thought sours his meal, makes the last bite go down bone-dry as he crumples the wrapper quickly and stands.   
  
“We should get going.” Derek says, the unsaid _thank you_ hanging in the air between them, and he knows Scott understood when the other man pats him cheerfully on the back, stretching as he stands. Derek distracts himself thinking of those notes again- the chords that never quite seem to coalesce successfully in his head, a faint echo of something he feels like he should know, but doesn’t, yet. Scott’s leading the way next to him comfortably, falling into a silence of his own- before he pauses, grabbing Derek’s forearm and hesitating. Derek’s known Scott long enough to know exactly what they means- and he doesn’t bother looking to where Scott is trying and failing to not look as they walk past. “It’s fine.” Derek mutters, and in a strange way, it is.   
  
Of all the people Derek has no interest in seeing again, his former dealer is one of them.   
  
Scott relaxes as they reach a safe distance away, almost out of the park at this point. Derek can see the proud smile Scott’s shooting him from the corner of his eye but doesn’t bother acknowledging it. It’s not like he actually has anything to be proud of. Derek’s been clean for a year, and although withdrawal was a nightmare, Derek knows there’s worse things. Scott starts talking again, and Derek barely hears him as his mind betrays him with a sudden memory, how her hand had shook in his when she’d read the results, the look in her eyes-   
  
“Hey, watch it!”   
  
Derek stutters to a stop, blinking rapidly as he realizes too late he’s crashed into someone. Despite not being a true new yorker, Derek’s lived in the city long enough to know that bumping into others is a daily occurence on the busier streets, if not an hourly one. Usually he’d glower at the other person, or make some half-growled comment about using their goddamn eyes- but Derek looks up at the other person and finds himself speechless.   
  
“You nearly knocked me over, asshat. You always aim right for strangers when you walk?”   
  
Warm eyes. Brown. Almost a whiskey color, with the sun shining down the way it is. Derek pales instantly, because they’re the kind of eyes he never thought he’d see again, even if they belong to a pale boy who’s glaring at him, looking between him and Scott like Derek’s some kind of mental patient. Scott’s trying to come to his defense, but Derek interrupts quickly.   
  
“No. Didn’t see you.” He tries to keep his voice even, unaffected, and the young man stares at him, eyes narrowing slightly and mouth opening to retaliate, when Derek interrupts gruffly and surprises even himself as he adds on, “Sorry.”   
  
Silence, for a moment, save for the cars rumbling along the street and the sneeze of a bum nearby. The stranger opens his mouth, frowns, closes it again, face morphing into something suspicious, almost confused. Derek’s not sure what kind of expression his own face is making, if he’s honest- he simultaneously feels numb and like his entire body is on a current, and all he can think is _run_.   
  
“... Right.”   
  
Derek’s eyes trail down the boy’s face, heart stutter-clenching at the sight of moles scattered across his face, at the pale pink lips twisting into a smirk. It’s not the same pattern hers were in, but it’s too close a reminder for comfort, and Derek wonders, suddenly, if this is another cruel nightmare, if he’s actually asleep on the subway next to Scott on the stained seats, if the bell is going off and they’re missing their stop and god, _wake up_ Derek.   
  
“Just...watch where you’re going next time.”   
  
There’s one last look from the stranger- something curious that Derek can’t even begin to decipher in those warm brown eyes, doesn’t want to, and he simply nods, forcing himself to stare straight ahead and ignore the urge to turn and watch when the boy sighs and walks past him without another word. Next to him, Scott’s staring at him open-mouthed, looking over at the retreating figure and back at Derek in clear confusion. “Dude.”   
  
Breathing. He needs to breathe. _Breathe, Derek_.   
  
“Don’t call me dude.”   
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say sorry to someone in...like...ever. Are you okay?” Scott sounds genuinely worried, and it makes Derek feel like he might slightly be losing his shit. He shrugs instead of answering, tugging Scott forward by his coat. “M’fiine. Let’s go.” Scott gives him a suspicious look, looking back for a moment one more time before sighing and falling back into step beside him. Derek tells himself he won’t look back as they walk through the peeling iron gates that frame the park and back onto the sidewalk, where an older man shuffles forward dragging a half-filled bucket of filthy water and dirty rags past them as they wait for the traffic light to change.   
  
He looks back.   
  
Even at a distance, Derek recognizes the nervous shuffle, the stupid jacket his former dealer never takes off, the cautious glances as the stranger Derek bumped into hands the guy cash, gets something tucked into the palm of his hand in return. Numb, he looks away quickly before the stranger can spot him staring, and forces the thoughts of warm brown eyes and the faint sound of chords from his head. Scott smiles up at him. Derek follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm still working on [My stubborness might get me killed (But I'm going nowhere without a fight)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14453661/chapters/33388926), and I should have another chapter up in the next week or two! But this was sitting in my folder for a while, and I didn't want to hold on to it any longer. Oops?
> 
> The chapters will vary in length; The first couple are shorter, they get longer by Chapter 3. I'd have combined the first two, but I like making a clear separation in each. Tell me what you think? 
> 
> Kudos, Comments and especially Critique are ALWAYS appreciated. Thanks for reading, cariños! <3


	2. I should tell you you need to go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mid "Light My Candle". Poor Derek lmao ~~except nah 'cause he likes it.~~

_ I told him about Paige. _

 

It’s the only thought he’s letting himself have as the stranger climbs up with ease, pert ass perching on the arm rest, shivering feet tucking into the space between Derek’s legs. He’s grinning, blown out candle tucked between two fingers as he looks down at Derek with a smile that is entirely too much for Derek to handle, especially tonight. 

 

_ Got a light? _

 

Derek’s cursing Peter’s name as he shifts on the couch and wonders at how he got to this point, cursing the stingy, vengeful bastard of an uncle he has who turns off the lights on Christmas eve and draws forward the one person Derek hadn’t expected to see again. Curses fate and destiny that this mole-covered, brown eyed creature turns out to live in the same shitty building he and Scott do, that he turns out to be their god damn  _ neighbor _ .  He smells like rosemary, and cigarette smoke, and something sweet and vaguely spicy and Derek’s paralyzed with something like lust-close-to-fear. He curses himself for slipping up-  _ Your smile reminded me of-  _  because it’s the first time in a year Derek’s said her name, and he can’t even process that information properly because this boy is forcing everything else from his head.

 

“Th-That was my last match.” Derek mutters. The other man’s eyes are framed by moonlight, lashes long and smudged with the makeup they make him wear at the club where he dances, the club Derek remembers visiting more than once. They look different from that day in the park, lashes lowered and something distinctly playful instead of angry twinkling in the limited light as he shrugs and leans forward, somehow knowing Derek’s watching every movement. “Our eyes’ll adjust.” the stranger sighs comfortably, mouth curled into a smile. “Thank god for the moon.”

 

Fuck the moon, Derek thinks, feeling strangely bitter at this predicament. The apartment is mostly pitch black, from where he hadn’t bothered lighting candles, resigned to more strumming and no writing, his usual routine. Right now, moonlight means Derek can see every feature clearly, including what he hadn’t noticed before. His nose is upturned, like hers; lips are less full, but the cupid’s bow is more pronounced. Derek’s staring. The other boy smiles, expectantly.

 

“Maybe it’s not the moon at all.” Derek mutters and shifts and suddenly remembers the tiny baggie of coke he’d tucked into his back pocket, plucked off the floor. He’s aware that the other man knows it there, that Derek had sat down to avoid giving it back. A distant voice asks why he cares; he ignores it, like he tries to ignore the bare centimetres between the stranger’s toes and his thigh.  “I hear Spike Lee’s shooting down the street.” Derek’s voice continues flatly. He wants to look away. He can’t. 

 

Brown-Eyes snorts, a flash of white teeth appearing. Derek’s not sure when he shifted closer, only knows his heart rates accelerated and his breathing’s gone a little hard. A witch, Derek thinks miserably, helpless when slim fingers slide into his own hand, turn his palm over. A damn witch, because it shouldn’t send a rush of heat up Derek’s spine as the other man lifts their hands onto his own lap, the moon behind them lighting their skin. Moles dot along the pale wrist, his forearm, and Derek wonders dimly how far along his skin they mark as the stranger murmurs something that sounds like  _ bah, humbug _ with a smile. 

 

“Cold hands.” Derek’s voice is rough, torn from him as his skin feels too tight under that watchful gaze, and feels it in the space between them as the stranger hums his agreement. “Yours too.” Derek’s eyes follow as those pale fingers turn his hand over, as if weighing Derek’s palm in his own. “Big, like my father’s.” A wicked smile. “You wanna dance?”

 

Derek’s in over his head. He should be telling this boy, this stranger, this  _ witch _ who comes into his apartment, who somehow knows that Derek’s alone with his guitar, to leave. He should be telling him he saw him that day, knows who he buys it from and knows how it’s going to end, can tell even now with the shivers and quakes that Derek knows isn’t from the cold, no matter what the other man says, no matter how he tries to distract him with his smiles and his moles and those warm, brown eyes. Derek should tell him he’s done this dance before, and never wants to do it again, and oh my god, he’d mentioned  _ Paige _ to a stranger, had compared his smile to hers-

 

Derek should tell him he’s  _ sick _ .

 

Instead, he swallows hard, mouth dry. “With you?”

 

The boy stands in a fluid motion- and Derek’s brought back to the memory of watching him dropping into an arch on the kitchen floor at his feet minutes before, the way he’d wiggled his ass in too-tight jeans and asked Derek to help him look for his ‘stash’ with a smile over his shoulder. Derek wants to sit, wants to refuse to move, and instead follows him to stand, allows this terrifying, exhilarating stranger to pull him close with an arm around his shoulder and Derek’s hand maneuvered to his him. “No.” The boy says simply.

 

They turn in place slowly, awkwardly, rocking from side to side with no music and he smiles up at Derek like he’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, before spinning away with a teasing laugh. “With my father.” 

 

It takes Derek a moment to realize he’s smiling. It feels strange, on his face. “I’m Derek.”

 

The stranger circles him, eyes bright in the moonlight, and Derek stares into them feeling lost, the smile still on his face, his heart pounding at the slow footsteps and at this unfamiliar feeling welling up inside of him. He barely feels the whisper of movement as the boy pulls the baggie free, then dangles it in front of Derek with a triumphant grin. He’s so close Derek can see the individual lashes fanned out on his eyes, can feel the puff of breath near his face when the stranger whispers. “Call me Stiles.” Stiles grins sweetly, and Derek’s heart clenches sharply. 

 

_ Stiles _ . 

 

The boy in question throws a wink his way before disappearing into the unlit darkness of the hallway. Despite the rasping screech of metal on metal from their door sliding closed, all Derek can hear are guitar chords- faint, haunting, building.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE HAVE A NAME! Or, Derek does, anyway. /lol
> 
> The shortest chapter of them all - expect the new few to be at least twice as long, if not longer ( ~~chapter four is huge lord help me~~ )
> 
> Next chapter earns the Explicit rating!


	3. I should tell you I'm disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the events of La Vie Boheme A, I Should Tell You, and La Vie Boheme B. Derek escorts Stiles home from the Life café. 
> 
> (The temperature climbs. There's a long embrace. It's another dance, another play, on another day.)
> 
>  
> 
> _**Warning:** We very much earn the explicit rating in this chapter!_

“Fuck, it’s cold.” 

 

Derek doesn’t think about it twice, pulls Stiles into him and wraps his jacket tighter around them both where they stand. Stiles makes a soft sound of thanks, and those long fingers curl into Derek’s affectionately, the sensation still so new that Derek swears he can feel sparks along his fingertips. The bell on the cafe door jingles as the owner closes the door behind them, still grumbling about the tables pushed together and their group’s non-stop order through the night: ‘ _ Wine and Beer!’ _

 

Stiles snorts next to him, and Derek grins, stepping out from the half-step into the street. Flakes of snow drift down, almost lazy but numerous, scattering over the dirty sidewalk and onto their hair. It’s quiet, which is strange for New York, but Derek finds it comfortable, even easy, finding a soothing rhythm in the wet squelch of their shoes on the humid concrete of the sidewalk. He steals glances at Stiles, and when he gets caught in the act he catches Stiles doing it too, making them both smile and duck their head shyly, fingertips squeezing gently in acknowledgement. 

 

There’s a sensation growing in Derek- something that’s been building in his chest since the night Stiles appeared and burned him with his candle, even since the moment he accidentally ran into him at the park. It turned into something harsh and aching the night he’d thrown Stiles out, the same night he’d been kissed by the other man for the first time. It’s warmer now, softer inside but just as big, and Derek calls it hope, because it’s still too soon to call it anything else. 

 

“Tonight was fun.” 

 

Derek looks over, meets Stiles’s gaze as they head over the littered crosswalk, still holding hands. Derek’s enchanted by the snowflakes in his hair, melting on the tip of his nose and his eyelashes, but his attention snaps to the twinkling smile in those warm brown eyes, drawing another smile of his own when Stiles continues, little puffs of air marking each word in the cold.

 

“Especially watching Peter chase after those guys in suits. You think they’ll still want this area, with the ‘degenerates’? That’s what one of them called us.” Stiles snickers, grinning up at Derek.

 

“Hope not. If they do, we’ll just have to give them more of a show.” Derek smirks, a low curl of heat in his belly as he remembered their own little display back at the restaurant. It wasn’t like he was an exhibitionist- that was more of Allison’s territory, if the way she and Lydia had half-ended up on the table making out was anything to say about it- but Stiles had climbed into his lap and given him a filthy kiss halfway through the confrontation with Peter. Derek would be lying if he said he’d forgotten the sensation, or that he hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed seeing the look on his uncle’s face as Stiles kissed him, the way there was something almost near jealousy in Peter’s eyes. Stealing a sideways glance, Derek notes that Stiles has flushed a pretty red, the color rising on his cheeks as he looks up at Derek with an all-too pleased smile. “Mm. Maybe.”

 

There’s a new tension now, slow-building in every stolen glance and lingering touch, aided by the warm haze of the wine settling into their veins. Derek knows there’s a promise of  _ something _ , or at least the thought of it- something that’s been growing under both of their skins since the night Stiles climbed through his window and kissed Derek like he wanted nothing else. It was the heat of that kiss that had scared Derek into reacting so badly, and which now left words stunted on his tongue, frozen cold by nerves. Stiles has fallen back into silence, still glancing at Derek with that knowing smile that left him helpless, mouth falling open to speak and saying nothing at all.

 

They’re only a crosswalk away, now. The litter in front of the building blows across the sidewalk and into the street, snow making the streets a sludge city-grey that twinkles with the few christmas lights a few neighbors had invested in. Glancing up, Derek can see the lights are out in the loft, remembers the look Scott had given him in the cafe while Stiles and Eric/a and Allison were laughing about something and Derek had pulled back just to watch, leaning over and nudging Derek gently.  _ Don’t come home _ . Scott had said firmly with a smile, and Derek’s heart picks up frantically remembering the words as they cross the street. It’s been a year, and Derek has no idea what to say, how to say it, how to even ask- doesn’t know if it’s too much or too far or too fast, and his palms start to sweat despite the bitter cold and-

 

Stiles stops suddenly, and Derek does the same, in sync with the other man without even realizing it. It’d be embarrassing, that he’s following and stopping like an obedient pup- but Derek’s too busy holding his breath in surprise as Stiles seems to come to a decision, smiles up at Derek in a way that makes his heart stutter and trip, and lets his hands cup his cheeks, fingerless gloves rough against his own stubble and so, so warm.

 

“I can hear you thinking.” Stiles laughs softly, before pulling him down into a slow, deep kiss. His lips are chapped and cold and their noses bump, but Derek doesn’t notice, arms wrapping around Stiles’ too thin waist and pulling him closer, deepening the touch. Stiles opens under him with a soft groan, tongue flicking once against his bottom lip playfully and gasping lightly as Derek nips in return, dips his own tongue into that warm mouth. He tastes like cigarette smoke and the handcrafted beer the Life Cafe sells, like warmth and moonlight and laughter. 

 

Derek doesn’t realize right away how close they are, chests flush together and rising in tandem as they pull apart. Stiles grins up at him, eyes shining in the lamplight and Derek chases his lips again, swallows another soft laugh as he kisses Stiles with a hunger he hasn’t felt in a far too long. Stiles winds himself around him, pressing as close as humanly possible, and as they break apart again he presses a kiss into the space behind Derek’s ear and murmurs, “Come up with me.”

 

Derek shudders. His eyes flick up to his loft, remembers Scott’s order, looks down to meet Stiles’s gaze and how his lips have swollen slightly, chin pink from Derek’s stubble and a high flush on his cheeks, and he nods, helpless. Stiles grins, biting his own lip before lacing their fingers together and Derek follows, lets the other man lead the way as they head up to their building. 

 

In the dim light of foggy lamplight, Derek can’t focus on the fact that the door is rusting, or that some asshole left a garbage bag by the door, prime target for the ever watchful scavengers of the city streets, and the contents are strewn over the payment. He doesn’t see the moldy walls, the peeling paint, or smell the faint, damp smell of failure he swore was the signature scent of this area, or the fact that the banister of the stairs has areas so worn there’s practically a hole in the metal. 

 

All he sees is Stiles. The looks over his shoulder the boy throws him, the way he laughs in delight as he rushes up the stairs and Derek follows him, like a moth to the flame. A floor below Stiles’ place Derek ‘catches’ him, presses him to the wall and steps between his legs to kiss him hungrily once more. It lights his blood on fire, the soft, eager sounds Stiles keeps making against his lips. Derek roughs out a longing sound of his own when Stiles rolls his hips upwards, tight leather pants hiding nothing, and he grinds down in response, achingly hard in his jeans. Stiles huffs a little sound against his lips after a long moment and pulls away, voice breathless to Derek’s pride. “Not here. C’mon.” 

 

Derek nods, almost feeling chastised and pulls away - Stiles must see it in his expression because he follows forward and pulls Derek down into another kiss, just as hungry and filthy as Derek’s had been. “It’ll be on our to-do list.” Stiles murmurs when he pulls away again, grinning wickedly and winking at Derek as he hurries up the stairs. For a moment Derek’s brain whites out, standing still on the landing, before he’s rushing up the steps, Stiles’s laughter echoing down as he hears Derek chasing after him. The door is open by the time Derek makes it onto the right floor, taking a second to catch his breath. A small, flickering light catches his eye, and he spots the tiny little tea candle on the floor with a grin. It makes his heart do that funny flip-flop in his chest, before he steps inside, sliding the door closed behind him.

 

The loft is covered in  _ stuff _ \- plants hanging off the walls, paintings and posters and collectibles and books of all kinds, colorful and chaotic. It almost surprises him, but if he really thinks about it, it isn’t a shock at all, not with how Stiles can spend hours discussing social justice with Allison, or the way he and Eric/a seem to have an ongoing dialogue about...well, everything. The thought makes him smile, looking around the lowlit space when a soft cough draws his attention, makes him look up and mouth go dry. 

 

Stiles is leaning against the doorway, dressed in a baggy shirt that reaches his thighs and hangs off a pale, beautiful shoulder, practically concealing the skintight shorts he wears underneath. “Took you long enough.” He teases, and Derek swallows hard, eyes dragging over him and drinking in the sight. Stiles must find that pleasing, because he prowls forward, movements slow and irrevocably sensual, and winds his arms around Derek’s neck, lets his body lean forward to press against Derek’s. 

 

“Stiles, I-” Derek stutters, the old panic suddenly returning and making him stiffen. It’s been so long since he’s- and what if it’s bad? What if this is tragedy waiting to happen, a caustic explosion that will corrode this, corrode  _ him _ , like everything Derek touches? He thinks back to Paige, to his family, even to Kate and the evil vice grip she’d kept him in, and he’s  _ sick _ , and it doesn’t matter if Stiles is infected as well, doesn’t really change the fact that Derek is disaster waiting to happen and Stiles is-

 

Stiles is holding him. A hard embrace, a hug so tight it leaves him breathless. Shakily, his hands wrap around his waist once more after a moment, and Derek takes a deep breath against his neck, inhales the spicy-sweet scent that is all Stiles, and tries to speak. 

 

“Don’t.” Stiles says softly, runs his fingers tenderly through Derek’s hair. “Stop thinking, stop pulling back. Just...be here with me, tonight.” Derek exhales sharply as Stiles barely pulls away, looks up at him with a soft, uncharacteristically serious look, the hands in his hair moving down to cup his jaw. “Please.” Stiles pleads, whiskey eyes illuminated by moonlight, and Derek knows he’s lost. 

 

There’s nothing left to say, not really. Derek’s never been the best with words, always found it easier to speak his truths through his fingers, his guitar. Instead of speaking, he pulls Stiles close once more, hitching the younger man up against him as he kisses him hard and desperate, saying everything he can’t with the rhythm of their lips and tongues. Stiles’ fingers drag up to grip his hair once more, and in one lithe movement hoists himself up to straddle Derek’s waist, strong thighs wrapped around him as he presses full in. Derek groans again, louder, lets his hands wander down his back and feeling the strength in those lean muscles before settling just above the small of his back and the swell of his ass. 

 

“Touch me.” Stiles pants against his ear, tugging lightly on his hair as he sucks a mark into Derek’s skin, and Derek huffs against him, chasing any piece of skin he can find, tracing along the pale column of Stiles’ throat with teeth and tongue. His hands hesitate, then dip down, cup the globes of his ass in his own broad hands, and Stiles lets out a sweet sound, arching back into the touch and grinding into Derek with the same motion. Derek sways, shudders with the effort of holding them both up and focusing on the pleasure of being pressed so close, consumed with need, with  _ want _ . 

 

“Want you.” Derek rasps, and Stiles laughs against his skin, lets his fingernails drag down Derek’s back through the cloth of his shirt. “You have me.” Comes the soft response, interjected with a nip at his earlobe, and Derek stumbles forward, feet guiding him to the open door at the end of the living room. “Door on the right.” Stiles mumbles, sucking a mark into Derek’s neck that his him throbbing in his jeans. “Unless you want to jump straight to wall se-” Stiles never gets to finish the sentence, instead making a surprised sound as Derek recaptures his lips when they stumble into his bedroom. Derek barely notices it, too consumed with the taste and smell and feeling of Stiles wrapped around him, literally and figuratively. Stiles is kissing him with renewed fervor, a kind of desperation that makes Derek’s knees weak, makes him grunt in surprise when the backs of his calves hit the edge of something firm but soft, the world teetering as they tumble down into messy sheets. Stiles laughs again, sitting up in his lap to continue kissing Derek eagerly, and when the movement drags him over the clear tent in Derek’s jeans they both groan, Stiles’s head rolling forward in pleasure. 

 

It’s the switch they needed, touches turning frantic as Stiles tugs at Derek’s shirt, flinging it behind him and earning the protesting jingle of whatever he has on his dresser as it lands, Derek’s hands tugging at those ridiculously tight skinny jeans Stiles is encased in. They struggle and laugh and kiss in between the movements, breathing heavy with need and anticipation, and when Derek rolls them over, bare skin to bare skin, Stiles stares up at him with a smile that lights every one of his nerves on fire, makes the chords in his head ring out bright as their fingers lace together and Derek stares deep into those warm brown eyes, unable to look away until Stiles leans up to pull him down into another kiss.

 

From there, it’s pure sensation. A back and forth of tongue and teeth and lips that eventually move past their mouth and onto the soft flesh where Stiles’s jaw and neck meet, the dip in his collarbone, the velvet pink of a nipple on his tongue. Derek’s slick-coated fingers dip between Stiles’s parted legs, digits dripping with the contents of a half empty bottle of lube Stiles had produced from under a pillow case. Derek had paused initially, and stared at the location and back at Stiles until the latter merely gave him a shameless shrug, pink high on his cheeks and skin shining from Derek’s questing tongue. 

 

“What? I live alone.” 

 

Their laughter dissolved into soft, high pitched moans that make Derek’s cock ache with need as he works Stiles open, one finger swirling, two scissoring, three spreading, aided by the open-and-close-and-open-click of the bottle cap as he adds more lubricant. “Fuck, I’m- please, Derek, c’mon-” Stiles pants against his lips desperately, blunt fingers dragging down his chest and over a nipple as Derek angles his fingers just so, rubs with purpose at the bundle of nerves inside of him until Stiles is nipping hard at his lips to muffle the strangled cry. 

 

“I swear to god Derek-”

 

“I’m an atheist.” Derek grins in sweaty triumph at the breathless laugh-turned-gasp Stiles gives him as he lets his fingers slip free. Derek takes the excess mix of lube and pre-come smeared between Stiles’s thighs to coat himself quickly, groaning gently at the touch and the way Stiles stares up at him, legs spread obscenely wide and mouth parted in a hungry, appreciative grin. He’s watching Derek with the same intensity as the night they’d danced in the moonlight, his long fingers dragging over the rising pink toneson his own stomach, trailing over moles and the reddening marks Derek's left over his chest. Derek leans down to kiss him again, can’t imagine anything else he could possibly want to do as he props Stiles’s legs high on his waist and Stiles hisses into his mouth at the initial breach, thighs flexing around his waist in tension.

Derek stops, fingers digging into the rounded globes of his ass and licks the wheezy whimpers from Stiles’s mouth until the younger man is nodding, desperately, a _fuck, im ready, move_ \- breaking the silence as Derek rocks forward. It's maddeningly hot, Stiles clinging to him like a vice as he sinks deeper inside with a groan from them both, and when he bottoms out Derek retracts almost immediately, forearms trembling at the sensation.

Surprisingly, He turns into a lover of language - a litany of praise and need falling from his lips and pouring against Stiles’s skin as he begins to move in earnest, letting the canting of Stiles’s hips against him and the rising cries guide him into steady movement, hips flexing as he rolls and grinds into the heat and warmth and pleasure that is Stiles beneath him. Moonlight bathes them both through the open window, lets Derek watch as Stiles arches into him with every thrust, and he feels fingers roaming over his back and spine, tracing the flexing muscles of his lower back before gripping his ass. Blunt nails dig into his skin and Derek hisses, thrusts harder and Stiles keens with the movement, hips hitching higher. It's then Derek realizes that he could quickly become addicted to making Stiles make that noise for the rest of his life.

He ends up pinning one of Stiles’ hands with his own, fingers still intertwined as Derek’s other hand is spread along his ass, cupping his lower back just above where his cock is keeping them together and guides the hungry, jerky movements Stiles is making against him. Derek ruts harder, more desperate, the _yes, Derek, fuck-just like that baby_ \- and the _moremorerightthereyes_ as much a mantra to the tight coil of pleasure winding inside of him and his own ragged pants as Stiles’s fingers gripping his hair, Stiles’s heels digging into his lower back with each roll of his hips and bouncing at the movement.

“Stiles-” Derek groans, head falling forward from their messy kiss to drag along his cheek and jaw, forehead meeting Stiles’s neck as he angles his pistoning hips as best he can and Stiles cries out against his ear, a breathy _ah-ah-ah-ah-!_ the last sound he registers before pleasure explodes through every fiber of him and Derek’s strangled groan joins the crescendo. Between them Stiles paints their chest and abdomen wetly with his release, shiver-shaking against Derek as he collapses into the sheets and Derek follows, barely keeping himself from crushing Stiles with his forearm as they pant brokenly, sweaty and sated and smiling.

It’s only afterwards when Derek is tracing slow patterns into his skin, long fingers running through his hair that Derek realizes he’s humming. The tune is slow and languid, a waltz that echoes the song in his veins as Stiles curls closer, warm brown eyes locked with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *confetti*
> 
> It's been a while since I've written anything mildly porny, but I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. Let me know what you think, yeah?
> 
> Either way, enjoy the smut and the feels and keep it close- we're heading into rough waters in the next chapters ~~don't hate me~~


End file.
